"A. E. Merritt - Creep, Shadow!" - читать интересную книгу автора (Merritt A. E)

21, Richard Stanton, millionaire yachtsman and globe-trotter, shot himself through the head while on the
deck of his ocean-going yacht Trinculo. This happened the night before he was about to set out on a
cruise to South America."

I read on and on...the speculations as to the suicide pact, supposedly entered into because of boredom
and morbid thrill-hunger...the histories of Marston, Calhoun, and Stanton...Dick's obituary...

I read, only half understanding what it was I read. I kept thinking that it couldn't be true.

There was no reason why Dick should kill himself. In all the world there was no man less likely to kill
himself. The theory of the suicide pact was absurdly fantastic, at least so far as he was concerned. I was
the 'Alan' of the letter, of course. And Bennett was the 'Bill.' But what was it I knew that had made Dick
wish for me?

The telephone buzzed, and the operator said: "Dr. Bennett to see you."

I said: "Send him up." And to myself: "Thank God!"

Bill came in. He was white and drawn, and more like a man still in the midst of a stiff ordeal than one who
has passed through it. His eyes held a puzzled horror, as though he were looking less at me than within
his mind at whatever was the source of that horror. He held a hand out, absently, and all he said was:
"I'm glad you're back, Alan."

I had the newspaper in my other hand. He took it and looked at the date. He said: "Yesterday's. Well,
it's all there. All that the police know, anyway."

He had said that rather oddly; I asked: "Do you mean you know something that the police don't?"

He answered, evasively I thought: "Oh, they've got their facts all straight. Dick put the bullet through his
brain. They're right in linking up those other three deaths--"

I repeated: "What do you know that the police don't know, Bill?"

He said: "That Dick was murdered!"

I looked at him, bewildered. "But if he put the bullet through his own brain--"

He said: "I don't blame you for being puzzled. Nevertheless--I know Dick Ralston killed himself, and yet
I know just as certainly that he was murdered."

He sat down upon the bed; he said: "I need a drink."

I brought out the bottle of Scotch the club steward had thoughtfully placed in my room for homecoming
welcome. He poured himself a stiff one. He repeated:

"I'm glad you're back! We've got a tough job ahead of us, Alan."

I poured myself a drink; I asked: "What is it? To find Dick's murderer?"

He answered: "That, yes. But more than that. To stop more murders."